I Am Fallen
by ObsidianWind
Summary: Felixia Galloway was never one to panic, nor was she ever one to acknowledge something that should induce it. Simply put, she never believed in a million years that she would be Reaped. She was wrong. Her strategy? Go as long as possible without being noticed. The tall, confident blond boy from district two causes complications. Cato/OC
1. The Reaping

My district, surprisingly enough, isn't much like the others. Our air is clean, any pollution absorbed from the air by the crops. Our skies, then, are clear; the atmosphere is not foggy and yellow with exhaust like in the other districts. Here, corn and wheat fields stretch as far as the eye can see, and a little further beyond that.

Our streets are dirt, no gravel, and if you're careful and watch where you're going, you can run barefoot. Lining the streets are small shack-like houses, the wood bleached white from the sun; I've heard that in the career districts, their houses are given color, but not here. Our homes do not slump to one side or the other as is rumored to be done in other districts, especially twelve. Rather, they stand straight and resolute. While we spend most of our time in the fields, we still find small minutes to keep up our homes so as to maintain a relatively happy existence.

It's peaceful here, uninterrupted by the hustle and bustle of the career districts or the danger of district twelve, or even the stress of district ten. Out in the fields with no one to bother us, the only things we are concerned with is our corn and our wheat and when the next rain shower will be since the Capitol deemed it unnecessary to supply us with irrigation four years ago.

The exception to this peace is the annual Reaping.

Every year, our district's Games Escort, Miina Rodune, appears, in all her exotic, eccentric, wild glory, upon a Capitol-provided stage in the heart of our small village in District Eleven to perform the Reaping—the drawing of the names of two very unlucky (though this fact is usually poorly hidden behind wide smiles and congratulations from the Capitol) teenagers, one boy and one girl, chosen via name-drawing to "perform" in the Hunger Games.

"Perform" is the Capitol's sugar-coated tactic of saying "fight to the death."

This year, my name was entered in the drawing thirty-three times. I wasn't worried about getting picked; it was nothing I could control and honestly, what would worrying do for me? Besides, there were many others with their names entered in the drawing many more times than I, and if I were one of them, perhaps then I would be worried.

But I am me, and I refuse to be worried.

* * *

"It's today," Father told me blandly, not looking up from his coffee cup—straight black coffee, the kind that made me gag, but he said it was good. I stood before the sink, staring out into the street through the small window above it, and he sat at our small round eating table in one of the two rickety old chairs.

I knew what he was talking about; I didn't have to guess, never had to.

The Reaping.

"I know. I'll come in early from the fields," I replied, my voice coated with the same careful emotionless tone.

If one had asked me why it was only this day that my father and I spoke it short sentences, voices held in check in a soft monotone, I couldn't tell them. This was the way it had always been, since my first Reaping when I was twelve, four years ago. I suppose it was because if we allowed ourselves emotions I would enter the Reaping frightened, and fright always left a bitter aftertaste that wasn't necessary. We had never spoken of the reasoning, though; I didn't ask and he didn't tell, so I would never know.

It was just us, my father and I. My mother died in childbirth, nothing special considering the low quality medical support way out here, and I was her first and only child. We weren't particularly close, but we weren't strangers, either, and that was enough for me. A family.

"Why don't you take the day off?"

This surprised me. Father favored getting as much work done within a day as was humanly possible, and as such I'd never had a day off in my life. I had no problem with this.

Dropping the emotionless facade, I turned to face the tan, dark-haired man with a raised eyebrow. "Why?" I asked suspiciously.

Still refusing to look at me, he shrugged. "You're old enough now that you've worked your fair share and deserve a day to yourself. Take some time to read a book or something, relax."

"Dad," I protested, "I haven't read a book since sixth grade, you know that. What's really going on?"

"I just don't want to you to have to work today is all."

I rolled my eyes up to the ceiling and considered his offer. After a minute or so, I closed my eyes and sighed. "Alright. Just this once."

"That's m'girl. I'm going to head out; I'll be back in time to change and wash a little, and we can leave together." His voice, though kept carefully neutral, cracked on the last syllable.

_Something's wrong._

Abruptly, Father stood and dumped his coffee down the sink drain, having taken exactly two sips. Before I had a chance to question his strange behavior, he was out the door.

* * *

I spent most of the day wishing away the time, and it dragged, stretching out forever. However, when I finally glanced outside at the sun, I was surprised to see that I had barely enough time to wash up before I needed to be at the Reaping.

The water was cold, but I didn't mind it all that much. I scrubbed hard, being sure to get as much of the dirt from my sun-tanned skin as possible, and washed my hair until it squeaked. Finally done, I looked myself over in the small mirror we had in our bathroom.

I had always been small. I was short and slender, not strong enough to lift anything heavy so I drove machines instead. My hair was long, reaching towards the middle of my back, though it was usually pulled back in a ponytail out of my face. Originally, my hair had been dark brown, but over time the sun bleached it to a dark honey-colored brown. My face was neither round nor heart-shaped, but rather balanced in the middle, slim. As far as skin went, naturally it was pale but the sun had long since tanned it past that. Wide, pale green eyes were my dominant feature, set under slender eyebrows.

I resembled my mother in nearly every way.

"Felixia, are you ready?" Father called, jerking me from the stare-down I was consumed in with my reflection. I grimaced; I hated my name. It was just a funky spelling of Felicia, but I went by Fell most of the time.

"Give me a moment to get dressed, Father, and I'll be out in a second!"

* * *

My hand was steady as I extended it to the woman behind the desk. She mechanically jabbed the tip of my index finger with a sharp needle, waiting for a moment as the blood welled into a drop before pressing the appendage to a sheet of paper.

"Next," she said monotonously, and I moved away to join the organized rows of teenagers, finding my place among the sixteen-year-old girls. I had only to wait for a short while before everyone had gathered and Miina Rodune had ascended the stage, an overly-enthusiastic and somewhat secretly vicious smile plastered over her pale powdered face.

"Welcome!" she said grandly into the microphone, causing several people to wince; I only stared at her. When she received no response, her smile faded a little, but she quickly continued onward with her speech. "I hope you're all as excited to be here as I am! This is a wonderful program we participate in, and you should feel honored to be able to partake in it!" She reached up and messed a little with her pastel-yellow hair—which I sincerely _hoped_ was a wig—and smiled again. "Well—let's just cut straight to it then, shall we? Right after a video presentation."

The video was nothing special, only a couple-minute preaching of how the Capitol created peace for us all, which of course was a load of bull and we all knew it, but nobody said anything about it. When the video was finished, Miina bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet and clapped her hands.

"Oh, I just love that!"

She was met with silence.

"Well, let's get on with it, then. Ladies first!" And with that, she plunged her hand deep into a large glass bowl filled with several small slips of paper, each with a name printed on it. Thirty-three of those were mine.

When she pulled her hand from the bowl, I felt nothing. When she unfolded the slip of paper, I felt nothing. When she opened her mouth, however, my chest exploded with a feeling I knew well.

I knew the words before she said them; in fact, I mouthed them along with her.

"Felixia Galloway!"

My stomach dropped even as the words left her violet-painted lips, and all calm left me. Panic bloomed in my chest and anxiety filled my head to the crown, and yet somehow, somehow, I managed to remain still.

Rigid, in fact. Paralyzed.

"Felixia?"

_She's saying it wrong, _was all I could think as I stared numbly up at Miina with wide, shocked eyes. All eyes turned to me; the girl beside me, a girl I recognized but didn't know, clasped my hand tightly. I turned to her with a look of absolutely panic, and she squeezed my hand and gave me a comforting look before nodding to the stage.

Shakily, I stumbled forward, making my way towards Miina slowly but surely, each step carrying me closer to the official recognition of my ensured death.

No one said a word.

When I finally reached the top of the steps, Miina embraced me, seeming to ignore my disbelieving, empty stare. "Congratulations," she said warmly, smiling genuinely before turning towards the boys' bowl.

"Noah Wellwood!"

A boy I didn't know, with dark red hair and blue eyes, went stiff in the crowd of eighteen-year-olds, and everybody turned to look at him. Several seconds passed until he began slowly gravitating toward us, much in the same manner that I had.

Miina greeted him in the same manner as she did me, and urged us to shake hands.

We did, and we met each others' eyes with a mutual expression.

We were both going to die, and we both knew it.


	2. This or That

Cornstalks and wheat as far as anyone could see eventually gave way to the stretching cities of District Six, which separated District Eleven from the Capitol. The bullet train sped quickly and quietly—the only sound being a low whir, the origin of which couldn't be identified by anyone but a mechanic—across the countryside, nearer and nearer to the place that would bring my exploitation, and, later, my death.

Noah had retreated to his "personal room" for a nap, though I doubted he would be sleeping, because honestly, how could anyone sleep after having been Reaped?

_But he deserves his personal time,_ I thought solemnly, knowing that I would have retreated to my own room as well had Miina and Septimus—our mentor and victor of the Games four years prior—been pestering me as they had him, but they hadn't, and as such I had taken my place in a rather uncomfortable chair placed beside the window.

I gazed, glassy-eyed, out into the cityscape of District Six, not seeing the flashes of light at the end of alleyways as they flew past, not acknowledging the reflection of the bullet train across the glass walls of the buildings, constructed almost solely of one-way mirror glass.

_I didn't talk to anyone much,_ I pondered morosely. _I don't suppose they'll miss me, then. All for the better, I suppose._

And it would be for the better. After all, if someone popular and well-know—they didn't have to be good, just someone everybody knew because they would be something common used to make new friends—would be sorely missed, even after they died and everyone knew it was pointless to miss them because they weren't coming back.

My goodbye with my father had been rather stoic. He told me he'd had that same gut-feeling I'd gotten _that moment_ all the night before, told me that he wanted me to survive as long as possible. For him.

Because he knew I couldn't live.

He didn't say that, of course, but I knew it and he knew it, so we hugged and said goodbye, and he left. We both knew we wouldn't see each other again.

I knew Father wouldn't be watching the Games. He never did, said it was stupid, that parents shouldn't have to watch their children die for the sake of the higher power's entertainment. So I knew then that he would not watch me struggle, wouldn't watch me make my last mistake, the mistake that would kill me, wouldn't watch me draw my last breath and close my eyes.

_I wouldn't want him to watch it anyway._

"Felixia, darling, how are you doing?"

I turned my head to see Miina's powdered, painted face uncomfortably close to my own scrubbed, clean one. The only thing I could do to respond was stare quietly at her for a moment before managing to croak out a single word.

"Fell."

Her yellow eyebrows furrowed. "Pardon?"

"Fell. It's my name."

Contact-colored pink eyes widened. "Oh, yes, dear, of course. Fell, are you hungry?"

I shook my head. "No, ma'am," I responded quietly, returning my solemn green gaze back out the window. "Not really."

"To be expected," a new voice joined, and I glanced back to see a tall, heavily but not overly-muscled brown-haired, tan-skinned man standing back behind Miina, his hands jammed into his denim jeans' pockets.

Septimus.

"Hello," he said cheerfully, smiling in a way that suggested that he was attempting to transfer some of his confidence or whatever it was that was buoying him into myself.

"Hi."

"Fell, is it?"

"Yes."

"Strange nickname. Where's it come from?" Septimus inquired curiously.

"Felixia."

"A shortening, then?"

"Yes."

Septimus studied me closely, his smile vanishing and replaced with a frown that drooped lower on one side than the other. His thick eyebrows lowered over his dark brown eyes as they flicked over my face, and all I could think to do was stare evenly back at him.

"You aren't a very extroverted person are you?" he said finally, and I felt the corners of my lips twitch a little for the first time in what was only a couple of days, but what felt like eternities.

"No, though I think in the light of the situation I should be granted this," I replied dryly, narrowing my eyes in an effort to silently convey that I wanted them to _go away._

Septimus considered this for a moment before turning to Miina and saying quite seriously, "I call this one. This one's the fun one."

Miina frowned. "That's not a nice thing to say, Septimus. Besides, if you're basing which one you "call" then you ought to consider the way you read people. The other one-"

"Noah," I broke in, irritated that they weren't taking the time to remember our names."

"Yes, that one. He's much more spirited. Practically threw you out of the room when you tried to talk to that one, don't you remember?"

"But, Miina, look at her _eyes_," Septimus insisted, beginning to get worked up, though I couldn't fathom what for. "Her eyes tell her story, and she's much more interesting than that other one. He's just going to be angry about it the entire time, I can tell. He won't be any fun. But _this one_," he said grandly, motioning to me with his hands. "This one has spirit, I see it. She's just holding it back. We've got to get her to let it out, and I can do that."

Miina glared ferociously at the tall man, looking like she wanted to say something colorful, but her vibrant pink eyes flicked to mine for a moment before she revised what she was going to say. "What are you trying to say?" she settled with, crossing her arms in a very child-like fashion.

"I'm trying to say that I want the fun one," Septimus returned smugly, grinning widely.

_Nice sidestep,_ I mentally commentated, eyes flicking interestedly between the two of them as they conversed, though it looked to be escalating into a one-sided argument if Miina continued to rise in temper.

"It isn't fair for you to be calling one or the other. What if I want her?"

"You just want her because you find it impossible to work with the other one."

"_Noah,_" I insisted again. Why couldn't they remember our names? It couldn't possibly have been that hard, really. My name was shortened to one syllable, his two. Simple things to remember.

Septimus waved his hand dismissively without sparing me a glance. "Yes, yes. That one."

"I can too work with him, you oblivious son-of-an-avox!" Miina growled frustratedly, stomping her foot.

The Victor's eyes gleamed mischievously as he recognized his triumph moving closer and closer.

"Really? Prove it, then."

"I _will_!" she hissed before stomping in the direction of Noah's cabin. I winced as the door slammed, knowing he wouldn't be happy about this recent turn of events.

_Something wicked this way comes,_ I thought, attempting to send my warning to my district partner in an act of pity.

* * *

"Wave," Septimus muttered under his breath as the bullet train slowed to a stop just outside a tall skyscraper towards the center of the Capitol. I stand from my seat, stretching my legs discretely and waving uncertainly.

"Smile," I hear Miina hiss at Noah, and a half-hearted smile immediately materializes over my features.

The Capitol was unlike anything I had ever seen. The people outside were a flurry of blindingly bright colors all mixed together, some in beautiful combinations, others in not-so-flattering ones. None of the colors I witnessed were natural, but for reasons I would never fathom, they were recurring, again and again, until my head spun with the kaleidoscope of it all.

Septimus gripped my upper arm as I began to sway dizzily, and he chuckled lowly.

"Happens to us all."

I was vaguely aware of Septimus and Miina leading Noah and I into the huge building, where the scream of the people seemed to trail after us until eventually it faded as we descended into the lower levels.

The interior of the building—at least among the floors below ground—seemed infinitely metallic, every surface shining with a silvery sheen. The walls, floors, ceilings, tables, chairs, all of it, looked to be made of stainless steel, though we had little of that in District Eleven so I had no way to be sure.

"And this is where I leave you."

I looked towards my mentor, surprised to notice that Miina and Noah were not with us.

"Where are-"

"That's beside the point," Septimus interrupted. "I'll come and get you just before the Introduction, but for now I've got to leave you with the stylists."

"The _what_?" Panic edged my voice. I had never watched the Games before—instead done work with Father—so I had no idea what went on.

Septimus looked just as abashed as I felt. "Goodness, kid, didn't you ever watch the Games? Or even listen to the people talk about it?"

I grimaced. "No."

Septimus' hand made instantaneous contact with his forehead before he pinched the bridge of his nose. "This one's going to be a challenge," he mumbled.

"Fell. My name is Fell."

"Whatever."

I felt my temper rising and I bit the inside of my cheek as three obscenely dressed women and a man who was either gay (which I hoped) or a pervert (which I really _didn't_ hope) grabbed me by my arms and pulled me away. I sent Septimus one last glare before turning to follow them.

* * *

"You can just kill me now," I told Noah honestly as we stepped into the chariot that would take us to the front of the stadium to meet President Snow, the director of the Game program. The purpose of this was to showcase the tributes from each district and begin the show that the inhabitants of the Capitol so craved.

Noah shot me a condescending glare. "Pun intended?" he asked sarcastically.

"Of course not."

The reason I wanted him to kill me just now was because our "designer team" had decided it would be appropriate to dress Noah in a green and yellow suit of some sort of strange creation to represent corn; his suit was a simple pin-stripe to represent the stalk and his tie designed with a little yellow checkerboard to portray the corn itself.

I, on the other hand, was stuck in a fitted golden dress with strange strings to help show that I was supposed to be wheat.

I would say that the design team wasn't very creative, but on the other hand they weren't given all that much to work with.

The other tributes, though, were stunning, the two from Two dressed like golden gladiators and the two from Twelve encased in flames behind us as our chariot took off second-to-last behind the others.

The crowd screamed at us from the stands, and I had to chant _Be friendly_ to remind myself to smile and wave and not shrink into the sides of the chariot and disappear forever.

Which, honestly, would have been much better.

When we reached the front of the stadium, President Snow, an old-looking man with hair whiter than any white I'd ever seen, smiled down at us in a way that suggested he was looking forward to watching us all kill each other. He made me very uneasy.

"Welcome," he said, and his voice carried over the stadium in obnoxious echoes. He raised his arms in a grand welcome, and at that point I didn't really continue listening. There wasn't any point; I'd heard it all before and I suspected so did the rest of the tributes, since it didn't appear as though they were listening either.

So, rather than endure another boring speech from a Capitolist, I took the time to absorb my fellow tributes... the people I would be thrown up against in just a few days. We hadn't watched the others get Reaped, yet; that video was going to be saved for tonight, probably after we'd eaten to give us something to throw up rather than dry-heave our guts out as we watched the others meet their doom.

My eyes drifted over District Twelve, recognizing the calm determination in the girl's eyes and the sheer awe in the boy's. Turning to my other side, I glazed over districts ten through five, pausing only a moment on District Seven, both of which tributes had large arms from chopping, hauling, and loading wood.

I stopped at District Four, the fishers, and studied them closely. They were careers, but didn't look all that menacing. Just a frightened-looking girl and a small boy, probably no older than thirteen. I moved on.

District Three: Technology. More careers, and they still didn't look all that menacing. So they'd worked with technology; they didn't have that much to offer.

District One, I skipped to, deciding to save the scariest-looking competitors for last. These were luxury kids, people who designed comfort objects for others. I didn't expect much from them, but the look in the boy's eyes suggested some kind of unforeseen problems that he would bring, and I didn't like it.

Finally, District Two: Masonry.

No matter which way a person looked at it, these were people to fear. They would have experience; they had been around weapons of all kinds their entire lives. Everything about both tributes suggested confidence far beyond what should be capable by any human being. The girl, small and quick, nimble-looking, stared around as though she had negative-nothing to fear from anybody.

My entire body jerked back a fraction of an inch in surprise when I noticed the boy from Two staring back at me; he'd obviously noticed my sizing up the competition. He was tall—huge, towering, in fact, to a frightening extent—and he stared back with hard, _I-will-cut-you-down_ blue eyes.

He scared me.

So I made a mistake, and I looked away.


	3. The Psychological Weapon

The rooms we were staying in before the Games began were very luxurious, fit somewhat to our tastes according to our district. The walls were yellow, blue, green, and brown, and the carpet was shaggy and the color of dirt in some places and the color of grass in others. Comfortable furniture littered the place.

Currently, I was huddled in a large brown armchair that allowed one to sink into its cushions when sat upon. My legs were pulled up to my chin, my arms wrapped around them. I was dressed comfortably in a pair of warm light green pajamas that matched my eyes. My long brown hair hung loosely around my shoulders, conditioned and brushed until the waves were silky and smooth.

Noah sat across from me in an armchair similar to mine, perched stiffly on the edge as though he couldn't relax until he was alone—perhaps not even then. He wore deep crimson pajama pants and a gray tee shirt, which hung loosely around thin shoulders. His dark red hair was damp and combed neatly; he had taken a shower immediately after we'd concluded the mini-tour of the District Eleven suite, as though the endless scalding water of the Capitol would wash away the shock of the past day.

_We were normal kids yesterday._

It didn't really feel like we had ever been normal—we were tributes now, and because of this, our past was what made us who we were... our past was our everything. Our past, here, was what made us unique, and in that way, the moment we were Reaped defined who we would be for the remainder of our lives, but also who we'd always been.

_We are, always have been, and always will be Tributes._

These thoughts comforted me in the way that they brought clarity to my mind: they were truth. And if this was what I was always meant to be, then I would play my part. When I died, I died, but I would die knowing that it was meant to happen. I would die proud.

"But I need to try."

"What?"

I glanced at Septimus, who was slouched on the sofa to my left, staring at me with a confused expression.

"What did you say?" he elaborated, and I furrowed my eyebrows.

"Um... did I say that out loud?" I felt my face reddening in embarrassment. When you live out in the middle of grain fields, you get used to talking to yourself to fill the silence. That included thinking out loud.

Septimus nodded, appearing confused, as though he'd never heard someone think aloud before.

"Forget it," I muttered hastily. "It didn't mean anything."

"No. No, tell us. Did you mean you have to try in the Games?" The concern is his voice made me feel sick. I didn't want them worrying about me—when I died, when I failed, I wanted the minimum amount of people to care. That would be less weight on their hearts.

Slowly, I nodded, not meeting anyone's eyes. Thank god Miina had gone elsewhere; she would probably press this more than anyone else.

"That's the whole point of me," Septimus informed me, laughter coating his voice. I looked up at him, surprised, irrationally, that he was bringing up the mentor thing. "The very reason you're given a mentor is so that you stand a chance in hell out there. I am your encyclopedia, your dictionary, your parent, your everything, in this little piece of flame and fire before the Games. My purpose is to make sure that you are able to make it as far as you can."

I stared at him, shock and gratitude warring over my freckled features. I opened my mouth, managed to croak out a couple of unintelligible, broken syllables before I realized it would be better to just close my mouth again.

Septimus laughed before standing up and cramming into the armchair next to me. He slung an arm around my shoulders, and it was uncomfortable, but I had no room to put any space between us and didn't care enough to speak up.

"So tell me, Fell, what are you good at?" he began, smiling over at me. I felt a little uneasy, but refused to look away.

"Um, what?"

"Fighting," Noah clarified from across the room, and my gaze snapped to meet his. His face was stoic, much like mine, but he appeared to have already gone over this with Miina, and maybe he wanted to help. "Spears, scythes, swords. Bows and arrows. Rocks. Anything."

_Oh_, I thought stupidly, blinking in understanding. "I've never handled any kind of weapon before. I wouldn't know." I shrugged. "I'm sure I'll be good at something."

Septimus rolled his eyes up to the ceiling in thought before looking back down at me. "Let me see your hands." He must have seen the question in my eyes before I had time to ask it, because he stuck out his hand and motioned for me to hand over mine. I stared at his outstretched palm for a moment before reluctantly offering my own.

He snatched my hand in both of his, twisting it gently to examine it from different angles. He poked and prodded, running his thumbs over the smalls callouses on my palm, rubbing my fingers and wrist to check for muscles. Finally, after staring long and hard at my palm, his favorite part of my hand, he mumbled, "Axes."

I felt my eyes widen a little in surprise. "You've got to be kidding." The words flew from my mouth before I could stop them. "Do you have any idea how dead I'll be if I get close enough to hit somebody with an ax? I'll be so dead..." I couldn't think of a witty way to end that thought.

Septimus grinned at me. "Axes, sweetheart. They're going to be your specialty, I promise. Don't worry, there are axes you can throw, axes to whack stuff with, axes for pummeling, axes for slicing—they're kind of like swords, if your think about it. I think you'll be best with the throwing axes and whacking axes... I'm good with axes. I'll teach you, starting tomorrow."

"I have to, um..." I searched my brain desperately for some sort of excuse to leave the room. "I'm, uh, tired. Yeah. I'm going to go to bed now. I'll see you in the morning." Wriggling quickly out from under Septimus' arm and the chair, I darted across the living room, past Noah, and skidded into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

I began pacing violently, the way I had seen Father do a couple of times back home, when he was thinking hard about something.

_Axes? He can't be serious. No way am I killing somebody with an ax. I'll probably find a way to kill myself with it. Not a bad idea, really. Can't be so bad if I kill myself quickly rather than having somebody else draw it out... but what if Dad's watching? That would kill him. _The idea settled as quickly as it had come. _And I decided anyway that I would try to make it out alive, no matter how far of a stretch that is._

I threw myself onto my bed and screamed into a fluffy pillow in frustration. I hated this, hated it more than I'd hated anything in my entire life, though I'd never hated anything much. But this sick Game made rage burn in my stomach, all the way up through my heart and chest, filling my throat and careening up the back of my skull, leaving a tingling sensation of utter hate and fury.

Turning my head to the side so I could breathe, I caught sight of a strange electronic device on the side table beside my bed, alone except for the clear vase of yellow roses. Curiosity leaked away some of the rage and allowed me enough interest to sit up and pluck the thing from the bedstand.

I turned it over in my hands, examining it thoroughly for a couple of minutes before raising a tentative hand and lightly tapping the black glass screen.

A technological-sounding but not annoying beep echoed around my chamber for a second, and I glanced around wildly before noticing that the image on my window had morphed from the lights and outlines of the skyscrapers below to a daytime cityscape, with groups of outlandish Capitol inhabitants chatting animatedly.

Tapping the screen again, the window changed to a desert. Again, and to a forest. Once more and it was... wheat. A wheat field. Wheat stretching on forever, the dark golden strands of grain bending and waving with the breeze. The sky was stained pink and yellow with natural watercolors, and a couple of white-gray clouds framed the image. Low hills rose in the distance, completing the picture of home.

Slowly, I rose from my bed and took small steps towards the image, my mouth open slightly in awe. This couldn't be real; this wasn't real. Only a few inches away, I lifted my hand and touched the window delicately with my fingertips. As my fingers made contact with the smooth glass, I felt hot tears rise in my eyes.

_I want to go home!_

A broken sob escaped my lips as the image remote slid from my fingers and tumbled to the floor, landing with a loud clatter. I sank to the ground beside it, my arms curling up to my chest as it wracked with cries, and burning tears seared their way down my cheeks, dripping from the tip of my nose from where my head was bent low.

_I want to go home._

* * *

It was around midnight, and I still couldn't sleep. I hadn't changed the image on the window from the wheat field, because it was all of home I would get until the Games began. I had stared at the picture for several hours now, and was sure everyone else had long since gone to bed.

With this in mind, I crept from the suite and up to the roof.

The roof of the skyscraper wasn't much; just stone and some railings to prevent one from falling over the edge, though they probably had some kind of funky force-field or something in case a railing failed. I stood beside one of these railings, my arms curled over my small stomach to hold in the warmth against the chilly night air.

I stood like that for a long time, gazing out over the calm city; up here, it was quiet, though I could see lights on in nearly every building below, and the city was quite colorful. Beautiful, in its own way.

"I guess you couldn't sleep, either."

I jumped, spinning quickly to come face-to-face with the tall blond boy from District Two. He towered over me, and I took a half-step back, eyeing him warily.

"I needed some fresh air. I found the window-image in my room, and..."

"And you found the image of home." I stared up at him with wide, shocked eyes. How had he known? "Yeah. They do that on purpose, you know. Set things around to remind you of home. I haven't decided yet if it's to help the whole "Tribute" thing sink in or if it's to shake you up."

"You, too?" I whispered. He knew what I was asking, and responded with a nod. He leaned against the railing, looking out over the scraper tops, and I mirrored him. We stared at the city below for a few minutes before I spoke up.

"What's your name?"

The boy turned his head to look at me, his bright blue eyes darkened in the reflection of the night sky. "Why?"

"I... I refer to everyone by their district in my head. It's tiring," I muttered, looking away.

He chuckled. "Cato."

"Fell."

"What?"

"My name is Fell. It seems I have to say that every time I tell someone my name. Either they call me by my full name or don't know what I'm talking about when I tell them what to call me. Strange, you people," I informed him in an unattached tone.

Cato laughed for real this time. "They way you speak of people not from your district is interesting. I don't suppose you'd tell me your full name?"

"Felixia Galloway," I responded with ease, offering him a small smile. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."


	4. Every Second

"I know who you are," Cato told me, leaning on the railing to look out over the Capitol as he spoke. "I was impressed by your Reaping."

I turned to him in shock. "What?"

"You were more calm than I would have expected," he explained. "So... rigid. Almost like you expected it."

I didn't reply for a few moments, but then quietly responded, "I did."

He turned his head to look at me, one golden eyebrow arched in surprise. "You couldn't have known you were going to get picked. That's impossible, unless you volunteered, which I know you didn't."

"How do you know that?"

Cato frowned. "You did watch the Reaping Recounts, didn't you?"

I gazed over the scraper-tops in thought. _What are the Reaping Recounts?_ "Um... the... the what?"

Now gaping openly, Cato stared at me before abruptly shutting his mouth. "Didn't see that coming. The Reaping Recounts are the recounts of the Reaping of the Tributes from each district. It's to show us what we're up against as far as the initial shock-factor. Why didn't you watch? They were on earlier."

"They must have watched them while I was in my room."

He rolled his eyes. "Of course. How did you know you were going to get picked?"

I shrugged. "It's this thing my father and I have. We just kind of... _know_ when something important is going to happen, before it happens. My father knew all the previous night, and I knew about a second before she said my name."

"You just... know?" He sounded so confused.

It was the only way I knew how to explain it, really. Whether it was a gift or a curse, I wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it had saved my life more than a couple of times. Farming machinery aren't always the most controlled vehicles. My father was known among the adults of District Eleven to accurately predict storms hours before they happened, a bad set of seeds, and, once, even the death of a friend's baby. I wasn't known by anyone for the predictions—I never talked to anyone but my father all that much—and as such my predictions were kept to myself. Mine mostly dealt with danger, my father's, work.

I nodded. "Yeah."

"That could be useful," he said slowly, and I wrinkled my nose.

"I suppose, as long as I know soon enough. Knowing I'm going to die a split second before I'm stabbed in the gut won't do me any good."

Cato frowned in frustration. "That isn't what I meant. If you just know these things—and are able to keep your cool like you did in the Reaping—then you might be an asset to the Careers."

Scowling, I turned to face him full-on, defiance fueling my bravery. "I am _not_ joining your pack of sadistic, torturous, murderous _monsters_," I hissed. "If you think I'm going to kill everyone I see and drag it out to cause them as much pain as is humanly possible, then you've been inhaling too much Capitol perfumes!"

The change in expression upon Cato's face was instantaneous, pondering to rage faster than a humming-bird's wingbeat. He mimicked me and stood at his full height, towering over me. "If you won't join us then you'll be cut down like the rest," he threatened lowly, his blue eyes darkening to the color of the night sky just before an angry storm. "Joining the Careers will give you a chance to live through the Games to the very end. Refusing this offer is an instant death-sentence and you would be wise to take me up on it."

"Then give me the death-sentence," I spat back at him.

"So be it."

I growled lowly and spun on my heel, sweeping away with quiet, belligerent dignity.

* * *

Septimus laughed the next morning when I told him of my encounter with Cato on the roof, offering an "Atta girl."

Noah seemed shocked at what Cato had said to me, but it was only a moment before he returned to his food and went to his room to change into the training uniform set out for him.

The training uniforms were black and red, comfortable and flexible, hugging the form of the person who wore it. When I slipped into mine, I realized that the uniform gave the false image that I was lithe and graceful. I wasn't clumsy; clumsy people weren't allowed to work with the machines. But neither was I sure-footed and confident of how I moved. That only came with work.

Something I would never do again.

I was resigned by this time to the fact that I would never see home again. I wasn't happy about it, but had accepted my fate the way I had been taught to do; don't worry about something you can't change. So I accepted it.

I didn't know what to expect when it came to "training." We were given four days, which was barely enough time for the trainer to provide us with the minimum requirement of survival techniques, which was not enough to live to the end of the Games. If you wanted to survive, you had to go in with previously learned knowledge... or be capable of learning at an inhuman rate.

Septimus walked with me to the training center, gym, whatever it was that they chose to call it to make it sounded cooler than it was.

"As soon as you get in there," he chattered, "find the axes. Get familiar with them—_very _familiar. They are your new best friends. Don't let anybody else touch them. They are _yours_. It's kind of like-"

"Shut up, Sep," I interrupted, my voice devoid of any emotion. "I know what to do. Just give me a chance to get in there."

"That's the spirit!" he enthused. "Look at this, Fell, we've already got you talkative and such!"

My eyes rolled of their own accord.

"Ah, he we are," Septimus continued brightly. "I'll see you in a few hours, Fell. Good luck!"

"Not needing it," I called back to him over my shoulder, but as I turned my head to watch where I was going, I smiled and silently thanked him.

* * *

Atala gave us our speech, and I stood casually with my arms crossed, weight on my right leg as my gaze angled down and to the left. Nothing she could say would make a difference. No matter how much she wanted to help us, she wasn't able. She provided knowledge on the most basic level, and perhaps would be a help if we were given more time, but we weren't. It was for this reason and this reason only that what she said made no impact. As far as I could tell, the only thing her words served to do was scare the younger Tributes. Instill the reality in them that in just a few days, they would be dead. That they couldn't enjoy the last few days of their lives because they would be fighting for every spare second that could be salvaged.

And in the Hunger Games, every second counted. Every second spent meant that you were still alive, every second spent meant that you were closer to death. Every tantalizing second laughed in your face because it knew it wouldn't be enjoyed. Every second was used to find food or water or shelter, or weapons. Every second, beginning now, was a fight for our lives, a fight where one and only one would emerge.

The only words I heard her say were, "Today, there are twenty-four of you. In two weeks, twenty-three of you will be dead."


End file.
